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Cavendish took the train west until the engine ran out of track. At the end of the line he looked at the handbills “Washer-up wanted at the Red Horse Saloon”, “City Police are recruiting”, “Guards for wagon trains, apply at the Red Horse Saloon”. Only one offered some interest to a young man with money and a taste for adventure.
The Red Horse Saloon was where Dent Martin had his ‘office’. He arranged wagon trains West, for a fee, he would find a guide, some guards (mostly not against the Indians, more likely against bushwackers, renegades, ex-Confederates, Mexicans, and generally other groups who found robbing passing travellers easier than working for a living) and other travellers. Then he would send them off. Some made it, some did not. He demanded money up-front and offered no guarantees. This life was passing though as the railway made its inexorable way west, soon the west would be tame and the prairies vast corn fields and people would have to look elsewhere for adventure.
Cavendish made his way to the saloon, downed his first whisky in the USA, and nearly choked on the raw, firey licquor. He resolved to stick to beer in future. Then he approach the table where Dent Martin held court.
“Sir? You are looking for guards for wagon trains? I should like to apply.”
“You have no gun”
“My guns are in the room I have taken. The city ordnance at the railway station said ‘no guns’” Martin lifted his jacket to show his revolver.
“You always so law abiding kid?”
“Not if it will get me the job”
“Why you so keen? You’ll probably get killed.” Martin tended to present the pessimistic case to enthusiastic greenhorns, whether they were settlers or guards.
“I want to travel west. I want to reach the Pacific eventually”
“Ohhh riggghttt” he lengthened the words with a hint of amusement “well of course, we aim to help young kids travelling alone into the wilds.” He paused. “You ever shot a man? Have you ever shot anything beyond a tincan? Have you even shot one of them? Go home to mama kid, this life is hard, nasty, brutish and short”
Cavendish smiled, the man was quoting Thomas Hobbes but would have no idea that he had just quoted 17th Century philosophy. “I will go whether you employ me or not, I have an armoury of excellent weapons” actually he hadn’t tried them yet, there had been no opportunity, he would test them later “and I will travel alone if I have to”
Martin shrugged, it didn’t matter to him, he’d been paid to put the wagon train together. It’s not like many came back and asked for a refund. Actually one party did once, but they were in such poor shape he just paid for them to be shipped back east and they were grateful for that. “Okay kid, it’s your funeral. Be at Best’s Stables in three days’ time. Monday that is. They’d be ready to go Sunday, but the Luddites won’t travel on a Sunday.
Pay is 50 cents a day, from the leader, plus the families will provide food.” There it was again, ‘luddites’, a knowledge of history?; maybe this man had more education than he let on. Cavendish never found out. He did find out that Dent Martin should have called them Livonites. They were an Eastern European sect of strict Anabaptist beliefs. To work on the Sabbath was totally forbidden. This would cause trouble later.
Young spent the two days remaining practising with his guns. He had plenty of ammunition, but he bought black powder to make more, and persuaded the gun smith to make him a whole bunch of lead bullets too. He opted to only use his steel bullets when he needed to as they would not be replaceable. Part of his equipment included Haberdash’s patented spark free powder grinder. “Use it to grind even the powder you buy out west, it will be finer and more reactive. You can use it to make your own black powder too if you have the ingredients”. Cavendish spent the evenings making the powder he bought finer. It was true! He tested it, his shots with his improved powder travelled 20 yards further. It also gave the pistol a bigger kick.
Monday found him mounted on a horse that he was rapidly having to learn to ride. The leader was not impressed. Hank Jedburgh had taken numerous groups over the trail, he was leader, guide, and guard. He was 40 years and 220 pounds of mean, tough, insobriety. The religious members of the train did not approve, but once away from the town he would be sober and reliable. “Boy, you finished drinking your mother’s milk? You are the weediest, useless, arse-fucking, piss-drinking, shit-arsed, soft-pricked, useless, piece of horse dung I have ever seen” Some of the families blanched at the language. One or two of the boys made mental notes of the words.
“You said useless twice”
“What? WHAT? You want me to put my fist up your arse are pull your teeth out?”
“Not particularly. I’ve been employed by Mr. Martin and assigned to this wagon train. You don’t like it? Take it up with him.” Cavendish had found himself in the saloon the previous evening, had drunk three beers and then some more disgusting whisky. His mouth was like a dried up water hole and he wasn’t in a good mood. He didn’t feel like taking shit from this man. Normally he would have been more circumspect. Hank advanced on him and swung a punch; that was often the way Hank sorted out complex arguments. His swung met blank air as Young ducked and then returned with a swing of his own which sent the bigger man to the ground. He sat for a moment.
“Well fuck me sideways, maybe you’ll do after all!” and with that Hank Jedburgh got up and walked away. One of his better traits was that he did not bear grudges, except against the Irish.
The train consisted of 18 wagons, Hank and three guards. The other two were old, one looked to be sixty! They had been cowboys but the work was too hard now so this was a way of earning a living and getting square meals each day. The 18 wagons were divided almost evenly between the 10 Livonite families and 8 others – various ethnic types, all white. Hank took against the O’Haras immediately.
Three days later they passed the last saloon, Hank filled up and finally opened up as to why he hated the Irish. “Me wife was Irish, beautiful red head of hair that cascaded down her shoulders. Her breasts, ah, her breasts were a wonder to behold” Here the women hustled away the children from the group at the fire “Her lips were like red cherries, ripe and luscious and I could have kissed them for ever. I met her on my second trip west and was married before we reached California. We lay under the stars and made sweet love. Her body was so perfect. She insisted, that first night, on us moving away from the group so we could be entirely alone and then she undressed entirely! God she was lovely” a couple of the godly men bridled at taking the Lord’s name in vain, but did not leave. “Her breasts were so round and white and she encouraged me to suck her nipples. They stood up like bullets! And her cunt!” the men seemed to have less objection to such crude language “Ah, it was tight and wet and she was a virgin! She was! She gasped as I took her that first time and tore her a little. And she wrapped herself around me. I fucked her fully four times that night. She never refused, never complained. Every night after, if I wasn’t on watch, she’d open her legs and let me fuck that red bush of hers. And when I was on watch!” here he stopped, looked round conspiratorially, with glazed eyes, like the 20 men listening were his closest companions in all the world. “When I was on watch, she’d come up and kneel and suck my dick off! By the time we got to San Francisco I was exhausted.
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